


beautiful boy

by catbrains



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Little Barry Allen, Minor Injuries, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, almost, and also joe sings to him, barry needs a cuddle and probably a good therapist, he gets one of those things, so that’s just as good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-29 00:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: “Sometimes - in general - everything just sucks a lot more than Barry can handle, too much for him to be able to grin and bear it, and suddenly he’ll find himself sucking his thumb and crying and being altogether pretty pathetic, because the world couldn’t just saddle him with trauma.It also had to saddle him with the dumbest way of dealing with it.”Barry regresses at STAR Labs after a rough fight with a meta, but things can’t just be easy - even when he’s safe at home with his Daddy, Joe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as i preface pretty much all of my age play fics with - this is DUMB and SELF-INDULGENT and i CANNOT BE STOPPED
> 
> for how well littlespace as a coping mechanism fits him, there are criminally few little!barry fics (though the ones out there are *chef’s kiss*, go read ‘em) so i’m here, as usual, to contribute my own, scraped together in like two days
> 
> i have no idea where this takes place in the chronology of the show, if it would make sense anywhere at all  
let’s just say “some point in season one”
> 
> this has not been beta read, so i apologise for any mistakes - please let me know about any glaring ones!  
title and song in the fic refer to john lennon’s ‘beautiful boy’
> 
> please enjoy!

Sometimes, Barry is convinced that he must have won the worst kind of lottery when it comes to just about every aspect of himself and his life.

Of course, there are good aspects - plenty of them, in fact. He’s got Joe and Iris, and he’s got Caitlin and Cisco, and he’s got a job he loves and a chance to make a difference and help people - as the Flash, too, and there’s countless other amazing things that surround him every day.

But he’s also got a dead mother and a dad in jail and a figure in yellow haunting his nightmares since he was eleven and he’s ridden a frankly impressive amount of childhood trauma right into adulthood because he doesn’t really know how to process any of it, particularly not as even more keeps getting piled on top like dirty laundry with each villain and death and failure he faces, and sometimes - in general - everything just sucks a lot more than he can handle, too much for him to be able to grin and bear it, and suddenly he’ll find himself sucking his thumb and crying and being altogether pretty pathetic, because the world couldn’t just saddle him with trauma.

It also had to saddle him with the dumbest way of dealing with it.

He can’t really remember when it had started - perhaps a year or so after his mother’s death, when his blind fury had finally started to flicker into the pain that it truly was. Up until that point, he’d done his best to push people away. He’d always refused Joe’s affection and attention as a whole, and things were difficult with Iris no matter how natural it felt like it should’ve been to just keep being as effortlessly close as they’d been since they first met.

It was still difficult - he still didn’t want to accept Joe as any sort of father figure, didn’t want to accept that his dad was a monster and had been trapped somewhere Barry couldn’t go and save him from, didn’t want to let Iris see him hurt - but it had definitely opened the door to the beginnings of things getting a little bit better. He’d just sometimes found himself feeling desperately clingy, desperately _ small _, and he’d crawl into Joe’s lap to be held like he was far younger than his actual twelve or thirteen or fourteen years.

At the time, of course, he hadn’t really understood, but, looking back, he can take a guess at Joe’s assumptions - the clinginess and the childish behaviour just being a product of an awful cocktail of grief and trauma and puberty. Just something that would pass with time.

But it hadn’t.

When he’d gotten older, become aware of exactly how weird it was, Barry had simply learnt how to suppress it. It wasn’t until he’d left for college and found himself with freedom and privacy that he’d began to explore it, began to research around it, began to find his footing in what it is in general and what it is for him, but he’d packed it all away again when he’d moved back home.

No room for that if he was going to be poking around crime scenes and pulling back sheets to look at dead bodies, after all. And there would certainly be no unpacking of the deep-set trauma of him, age eleven, walking straight into the crime scene that his home’s living room had been turned into - the trauma of pulling back that plastic sheet to see his mother’s dead body, to stare straight at her cold, expressionless face.

Of course, such a decision - particular when made by Barry Allen - was bound to shatter rather spectacularly sooner or later. And shatter it had. But only a little - no pun intended.

There were just...a few cracks, in the months before the lightning strike. Joe started to realise things, and he started to try and get closer again, started the tentative process of _ taking care _of Barry again, and then Barry had gotten struck by lightning and been in a coma for nine months and now he’s got superpowers and lives a double-life fighting crime in both of the ways he can.

And, of course, the tiny amount of progress that Joe had made in getting them both to any real, stable point in this almost-new, almost-not aspect of their relationship had been shattered. And, in the process, Barry had shattered too. Really this time - dramatically, _ messily_, and suddenly slow and steady really didn’t win the race because Barry had lost the ability to take anything slow and it was also becoming more and more apparent that he was going to fly straight off the deep end if someone didn’t grab him by the collar and take care of him soon.

So Joe had done just that.

It’s not exactly the exclusive, private, only-behind-closed-doors deal, because Caitlin and Cisco know everything and so does Iris and it’s kind of _ important _for them to know everything. 

Really - sometimes - Barry is glad that they do. Because apparently it’s somehow visible - as he comes stumbling in from a city-spanning, almost-all-night chase with some meta duo who’d been causing plenty of problems for him and for everyone - that he’s dangling right on the edge of headspace.

He’s _ tired_, and he’s ravenously hungry but also vaguely nauseous, and one of the metas had the power to scramble his sense of direction and make him all dizzy, so he’s been running round and round and round and then getting the stuffing beaten out of him, and — yeah, he wants Daddy. He doesn’t want anyone but Daddy, but Daddy’s not here, there’s just Caitlin who’s leading him over to sit on an examination table and prodding at all of the places that hurt and Cisco who’s doing something in the other room, not hovering around Barry to make him laugh and smile like he usually does.

It’s not a substitute he’s at all happy with.

Barry knows he’s being difficult, and he really doesn’t like being a brat, but he can’t help but whine and hiccup and wriggle feebly away from Caitlin’s hands as she keeps putting horrible sting-y stinky gel all over his cuts and scrapes and poking at his bruises. She’d helped him out of the uncomfy suit, at least, so he’s just in his undies, but it’s also _ cold _ and the labs aren’t nice at all, not cosy and comfy. Nothing _ about _this is comfy, not like being curled up in Daddy’s lap, and Barry lets out a sob as Caitlin twists his throbbing ankle this way and that.

“Wan’ _ Daddy_,” he announces, kicking out weakly, but she catches him easily by the shin and gives him a gently stern look.

“I know you do, Barry, but you don’t hit or kick anyone,” she reprimands softly, not really strict, but it’s enough to make Barry feel guilty and fidget.

“‘M’sorry, Caitlin,” he mumbles, looking down at his lap, and he feels her hand gently rub his shin as a silent reassurance. She didn’t actually mention whether or not Daddy is really coming, but Barry doesn’t want to ask again because he doesn’t want to get in trouble for whining, so he settles for chewing harshly on his lip until Caitlin notices.

She gives him another stern look, and then she gets up and walks away, and Barry’s heart jolts. He feels immediately guilty for whining so much and being so bad, because now she’s upset with him and she must be tired too and she must be really stressed and he’s only making it worse by being a terrible little boy and now she’s _ leaving _him forever and ever.

He’s sobbing by the time she returns with a freshly-boiled pacifier and a bundle of what looks to be clean clothes. 

“Oh, Barry, what’s wrong?” she asks, brows pulling down in a very genuine worry that only succeeds in making Barry cry harder. He’s always like this when he’s tired, about as quick to cry as he is to smile usually, but he’s also rather quick to settle when Caitlin gently pushes the pacifier between his lips and starts gently, almost gingerly, petting his hair with her other hand. His eyelids droop as he suckles on the paci, the last dregs of the tension of the battle draining slowly out of him in the form of more quiet tears, and he wants to cling to her but isn’t sure if she’d be okay with it, so he just sits in misery and tries very hard not to think.

He’s floating close to sleep by the time he hears a door open and close and then footsteps, but he quickly pushes through the haze inside his head to sit straight up and spit his paci out, eyes alert as they watch the doorway. He’s up and running over the _ moment _he sees that it’s Joe, and apparently he must’ve gone really fast because Daddy grunts and stumbles backwards a bit when Barry collides with him.

It takes him a second to recover - enough for the tears to start building up again as Barry starts feeling horrible and guilty - but then there are strong arms wrapping securely around Barry’s waist and holding him close.

“Hey there, beautiful boy,” Joe greets affectionately, and Barry can hear the soft, gentle smile in his voice. “What’re you doing, all bruised up and runnin’ around in your underwear? Hm?”

Barry stammers for a moment, before he finds his tongue and starts babbling his way through some attempt at a retelling of the evening’s events. The details are kind of foggy now, though, and all he can really think about is how his ankle still hurts and he shouldn’t have ran on it just now, and he’s so so so tired, and Daddy’s arms feel as warm and safe as Barry knew they would, and Barry really really doesn’t wanna be here anymore, doesn’t wanna be stood in the cold lab, doesn’t wanna think about all the mean people out in the city right now who want to hurt nice, innocent people and hurt his friends and hurt him.

He doesn’t realise he’s panicking until he realises that his feet aren’t on the ground anymore. Daddy’s holding him, cradling him like he really is a baby and not six feet tall and in his twenties, but it’s hard to really think about being big when he’s being rocked and cooed at and Caitlin’s there too, giving him an almost timid little smile as she gives him another clean pacifier. He feels embarrassed - ashamed - for a single moment, before the comfort of the situation sets in and he lets himself relax, suckling on his paci as he buries his head against his Daddy’s shoulder. It’s still embarrassing, just a bit, but he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

“Home,” he mumbles hoarsely, garbled around his pacifier, and Joe presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

“You wanna go home, baby boy? Alright. How ‘bout we get you dressed, then me and you can go home?”

It’s not ideal, considering Barry would much rather he home _ right now_, which he could technically accomplish, but he’s not supposed to use his speed when he’s little because he might hurt himself or damage things, as Joe and Iris and Caitlin and the others have said many times. It’s a rule he’s not all too happy about right now, but, thinking about it, even finding his way out of the building seems confusing and daunting, let alone if he’s running, so maybe it’s best for him to let Daddy take care of things.

“Fast,” he whispers, something between a question and a request, and Joe chuckles as he adjusts his grip on Barry and carries him over to the padded examination table he’d been sat on before.

“I’m not sure I can be quite as fast as you probably want me to be, baby,” he says, “But I’ll do my best.”

True to his word, he does make fairly quick work of getting Barry into his clothes, even if Barry is a little bit boneless and useless and also cries out when Joe holds his ankle to help him into his sweatpants. Joe startles and looks to Caitlin then, and she quickly explains that it’s just a sprain which should be healed good as new in an hour or so. Joe still doesn’t look happy, but he lets it go without reprimanding Barry for getting hurt, which Barry is grateful for. His head is throbbing, and his thoughts are just an endless, illogical stream of ‘home, home, home, Daddy, home’, which is infuriatingly more articulate than his mouth is at the moment. Joe is sort of trying to make conversation as he pulls the waistband of the sweatpants up Barry’s skinny hips and then sets about getting his arms through the correct holes of his t-shirt, prompting him with gentle questions, the way one might with a shy toddler, but Barry can’t manage more than the occasional mumble of gibberish in response.

Thankfully, Joe seems content with that, and even calls Barry a good boy when he manages to get out an answer of ‘uh-huh’ to the question ‘does anything still hurt?’

Joe leans over and talks to Caitlin for a bit, voices lowered so Barry can’t hear, and he’s too sleepy to protest this like he usually does. He kind of likes it, anyway - likes feeling little enough that he doesn’t have to worry about anything, doesn’t even have to listen to the grown-ups talk, even though he knows that they’re talking about him. 

He’s content with it for a little while, until he starts nodding off and then startling awake because there’s nothing for him to lean against, and that’s when he reaches out to weakly tug at his Daddy’s jacket.

“Home,” he urges softly past his paci, thankfully no longer aware of exactly how pathetic he sounds.

“In a minute, Bear,” Joe promises, but that’s not good enough, and Barry whimpers to make that fact clear.

“_Home_, Daddy,” he whines, tears building up in his eyes, and Joe pauses before he sighs. Normally, he’d reprimand Barry for being bratty, tell him to be patient, but right now he just stands and then scoops Barry up into his arms again, holding him close and safe and secure and pressing a kiss to his hair.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “We’re going home now, okay? You can go straight to sleep, sunshine. I know you’re tired, and I know you’re a little banged up, and I know it doesn’t feel good. But Daddy’s here, hm? Daddy’s gonna take care of you. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

He stops, and he talks to Caitlin some more and maybe Cisco appears at some point, but Joe’s cooing at Barry and rocking him through all of it, and suddenly it’s impossible to stay awake, so matter how miserable Barry feels for a million reasons he can’t quite wrap his head around right now. He just rests his head right in the crook of Joe’s neck and sucks on his paci, and he’s asleep long before they even leave the room.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive home is largely free of the usual Central City traffic thanks to the late hour, but the traffic lights operating on their own in the dark prevent it from being an entirely smooth ride. Barry is fast asleep in the back seat, head titled towards the window and his pacifier bobbing in his mouth, and the radio is playing one of Joe’s favourite jazz CDs at a volume almost too soft to hear.

It’s the type of atmosphere that Joe adores - more than enough to make up for him being forced to get up and dressed and come running to STAR Labs when Cisco had called him to let him know that the latest fight hadn’t gone anywhere near perfectly, and Barry had slipped upon arriving back. Not that Joe could possibly fault Barry for that, he’ll always come running for his son - his little boy - but it’s also often just more stress than he can handle. Hearing that Barry is hurt or has been forced into a drop is never going to get easy.

It’s all Joe can do to just roll with the punches.

“Alright,” he murmurs as the car pulls up in the driveway to their home, glancing at Barry in the rear view mirror. “C’mon, little boy. We’re home now.”

Barry stirs with a whine as Joe climbs out and rounds the car to scoop him up and carry him inside, but he’s still far too sleepy to be much help as Joe juggles him and the tasks of locking and unlocking and opening and closing various doors, cursing the fact that Iris chose tonight to be out. Eventually, though, they make it to the lounge and he can set Barry down on the sofa with a soft grunt. The boy immediately curls up and snuggles down against the cushions, knees tucked close to his chest and his pacifier still bobbing steadily as he suckles on it, and Joe hesitates for a single moment before he crouches down beside his little boy to gently stroke his hair. He’s glad that Barry’s finally fully content now that they’re at home, because as much as it’s frustrating when Barry’s being bratty and uncooperative, it’s also genuinely painful to see him unhappy like that.

It always makes Joe think of when he’d first found Barry under his care, and come face to face with that furious little nightmare who’d yell like it was a competition and run off into the streets looking for trouble the moment Joe glanced away for even a moment. That little boy with so much that he couldn’t process - the image of his dead mother burnt into his mind, the knowledge of his father’s atrocious actions, and those damned good-for-nothing little assholes at school who couldn’t give him a break, even when he was still reeling from something far worse than any child his age should have been able to even imagine.

Not for the first time, Joe allows himself only a moment or two to wonder whether Barry would be doing better than he is now if it weren’t for the whole Flash thing. Would he be further in his recovery? Would he be processing things better? Is the additional trauma that the job provides worth more than what being the Flash seems to mean to Barry? 

Or, if he wasn’t the Flash, would he just be hurting himself in different ways?

Joe sighs as he cards his fingers through his son’s soft, messy hair. 

These aren’t the sort of questions he’d thought he’d be asking himself, all those years ago when he’d had Iris. He hadn’t thought for a moment that life could possibly take this course when Iris had made a friend in grade school, this bright little boy, always full of sunshine and smiles, but then darkness had crashed down on that little boy and forced him into Joe’s arms - arms he was desperate not to go into. But he’s here now. And he’s a goddamn _ superhero _ with the weight of the world on his shoulders and Joe can’t do a damn thing but what he’s doing right now - trying to take care of the broken pieces when it’s all over for the night, because Barry still is and always will be that boy who goes running off into the streets looking for trouble.

At the very least, Joe can try and find some comfort in the knowledge that Barry is safe right now, safe and still for Joe to lean down and press a kiss to his hair before he finally stands. It’s late, and he’d been midway through getting ready for bed after a long day at work before Cisco had called, so he’s more than eager to resume and get some sleep - presumably with Barry curled up next to him, if his clinginess earlier had been any indication. For now, he picks up the soft blanket lay over the back of the sofa and unfolds it to tuck it carefully around Barry, enough to keep him cosy and warm and fast asleep while Joe’s being noisy in the master bedroom en-suite. He can then come back out and rouse Barry, hopefully manage to get his teeth brushed and get him changed into some pyjamas and maybe a pull-up, and then finally carry him up to bed.

Alright. That’s good. A plan. Joe’s always thought that plans are the best way to tackle anything, the best way to focus on getting something done - because, if he didn’t have one right now, he’d spend the rest of the night crouched here beside Barry, watching over him and worrying like he’s done so many times before. Like he’d done for the nine months he spent believing that his son was only ever a heartbeat away from death.

The thought is enough to make his plan waver in his head, make him truly weigh the option of curling up right here with his son, but he forces through it. He goes upstairs, telling himself that Barry is fast asleep and safe, and sets about following his normal bedtime routine.

He’s in his pyjamas, just finishing up patting his face dry, when the sound of screaming cuts through the house.

Immediately, his blood runs cold, and he’s running downstairs before he’s even thought about it. There’s not a single plan in his mind except to protect his son, grab his gun if he can get to it, but the possible need for physical violence is thrown away when he gets halfway down the staircase and sees Barry writhing on the sofa, tangled in the blanket and clearly deep in the throes of a nightmare. His pacifier has apparently fallen to the floor, the nipple still wet, and it’s a wonder that Joe doesn’t trip over it as he practically throws himself down at Barry’s side.

“Hey, hey, Barry, Bear,” he coos, voice only slightly frantic as he watches his little boy choke on petrified sobs, face red and wet, “It’s alright. It’s okay. It’s just a nightmare, baby, c’mon. Wake up for me. Daddy’s here, you’re safe. You’re safe, baby, wake up.”

Blessedly, it only takes a few gentle shakes to pull Barry from the terror, but Joe is entirely unprepared for the raw, terrified, and incredibly young-sounding scream of, “Mommy!” he lets out as his eyes snap open. They’re unfocused and bright with tears, staring up for a moment as if expecting someone to be looming over him, and then darting to the floor. Joe knows exactly what he’s looking for, exactly what he’s expecting to see - or perhaps is still seeing if the heartbreaking sob he lets out is any indication - and he quickly crowds himself closer, close enough that Barry can’t look at anything except him.

“Daddy’s here, baby,” he says, smoothing his palm over Barry’s brow, now damp with sweat. “Just look at me. Focus on me and focus on your breathing, alright? You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

It’s the exact same routine as the one he’d used when Barry was a child - right down to the way Barry sobs as he leans into Joe’s hand and babbles hoarsely, hysterically, about a man dressed in yellow. His eyes are still seemingly unseeing, uncomprehending, and he’s showing no sign of calming down, no matter what Joe says as he continues to coo. He’s still mumbling about his mother, about lightning and blood and how he wasn’t fast enough, about the man in yellow who stood and stared at him, and he sounds so vividly terrified, so vulnerable, so _ broken_.

Joe doesn’t really have a plan as he opens his mouth, but, “Beautiful boy,” comes out like an instinct, just barely cracking into a melody halfway through.

Like always, it feels like he’s stealing. He can’t remember if it had been Henry or Barry who had first told him, but he knows that Henry used to sing Barry to sleep after nightmares with ‘_Beautiful Boy_’. To this day, it’s the one thing that’s capable of providing any real comfort when Barry is particularly worked up after a night terror, no matter how hard Joe tries to keep away from it - to leave the memory of it pure, leave the song to belong to Henry.

But what is he supposed to do? 

He’s so damn tired, and Barry is so distraught, and seeing him like this _ hurts _, because even like this - in a headspace that’s supposed to keep him safe, let him relax, make up for everything he’d faced growing up - Barry can’t be happy.

“_Close your eyes, have no fear_…”

Hands trembling just slightly, Joe lifts Barry beneath the armpits and pulls him gently into his lap, holds him tightly. Barry clings to him in kind, shaking like a leaf as he presses his face to Joe’s neck and sobs.

“_The monster’s gone, he’s on the run and your daddy’s here._”

He leans down and presses his face to Barry’s messy hair, presses something too half-formed to really be called a kiss to the crown of his head.

“_Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy_…”

And, as Joe sings, over the verses and looping the chorus over and over to encourage Barry to respond to the melody like he always does, his breathing gradually evening out as he starts to hoarsely and clumsily hum along, it gets harder and harder for Joe to remind himself of the reality that Barry isn’t a little boy anymore - not really. He’s an adult, tall and bright and confident despite his endearing awkwardness, but the fragility of him right now makes all of that just about invisible.

“Are you feeling better now?” Joe asks in a whisper, after he’s sang the whole song twice and listened to Barry attempt to sing the chorus along with him, managing to mostly carry the tune even though he could only babble the simple lyrics, clearly littler now than he had been earlier. “You’re not scared anymore?”

Silently, Barry shakes his head where it’s still resting against Joe’s shoulder. He’s still clinging, lanky arms wrapped tightly around the back of Joe’s neck, but he’s much more pliant now than he had been. Joe can still see that he’s afraid, at least a little bit, but provided his boy’s no longer on the brink of a panic attack, he feels safe to count it as a victory.

“How ‘bout we go up to bed, then, hm?”

Even if Barry’s not quite okay enough that the notion of trying to sleep again doesn’t immediately make him whimper with impending tears. Joe quickly pulls him closer, presses another kiss to his head.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he soothes. “You’ll be safe with Daddy this time. I won’t leave you. Doesn’t that sound better? You don’t even have to go to sleep straight away. I can read to you, if you want. And you can just snuggle down and see if you feel sleepy again, eh? Just get comfy in Daddy’s arms.”

It’ll work. It always works - it’s how Joe’s been working around Barry’s issues with sleep for over ten years now, though most of the barters when Barry had been younger had been the two of them watching movies side-by-side on the sofa until Barry finally lost out to his own exhaustion.

“...Da’y...stay?”

Barry’s voice is so wrecked with tears that it’s almost unrecognisable. It sounds like it hurts for him to speak, and Joe is suddenly hit with a different idea of how to get Barry to sleep.

“Daddy’ll stay,” he promises, leaning back so he can meet Barry’s eyes and hopefully exhibit his sincerity with a soft smile. “He’ll help you get all ready for bed, too. But first...how ‘bout we make you a bottle?”

♥︎

It’s a purchase that Joe had almost been ashamed of, a couple years ago - the adult-sized baby bottle. Just the same as every adult-sized pacifier, every pack of diapers and pull-ups which had made the whole situation uncomfortably real - forced Joe to confront the fact that this is weird.

It’s hard to find even an ounce of shame or regret inside of himself now, though, as he watches Barry doze against his chest, suckling steadily on the bottle of warm formula Joe had made for him. 

Cisco had worked on it. He’d wanted to create something like the energy bars, but adapted for when Barry is...smaller, enough to almost keep up with his necessary calorie intake without overwhelming him or saddling him with the task of choking food down when he’s too little to really do so, particularly without help. Right now, though, the formula is mostly serving its purpose of satisfying Barry’s instincts and soothing him to sleep, helped along by Joe rocking him gently back and forth, supporting his back with the hand that isn’t holding the bottle up, because he’d said that Barry was too little to do it himself - a decision which had served _ its _intended purpose of soothing Barry even deeper into regression.

They hadn’t even made it through a book - one of the children’s books that Joe still has, kept from Iris’ childhood, ready to be gifted to a grandchild in the future but for now proudly serving for little Barry. Joe had offered, had even picked a book out specially, but Barry had shaken his head and made grabby hands at the bottle on the nightstand and whimpered and that was that decision made.

Really, Joe’s glad. Not just because he can see now as Barry finally falls into sleep, his mouth falling lax around the nipple of the bottle and letting a little bit of milk dribble down his chin, but because Barry’s finally, really content now, dressed in his softest pyjamas and a nighttime pull-up.

He may still have another night terror yet, or just sleep restlessly and work himself into a terrified panic when he wakes up ‘alone’ in the dark because Daddy’s fast asleep and he swears he can feel the man in yellow staring at him again, but that _ is _something that Joe had expected and accepted when he’d had Iris: he would have any number of sleepless nights for his children, whether they’re sick or hurting or just fearing imaginary bogeymen.

Grunting slightly with the effort of stretching over without risking disturbing Barry, Joe manages to set the near-empty bottle on the nightstand and turn the lamp down before finally settling down against the pillows, lifting his arm up so Barry can snuggle up against him. He dreads to think what time it is, doesn’t even want to think about what time they both have to be up for work in the morning, but he might be able to get some leeway for a morning off if he’s lucky.

And, if he’s even luckier, he’ll wake up to find Barry sleepy and happy and still lay beside him, rather than tense and ashamed and hiding away in the kitchen or bathroom, already dressed, with his pacifier and baby bottle and cute pyjamas and the bag of pull-ups hidden away somewhere in his room like Joe won’t just find them again.

He won’t be able to wake up with a plan. There’s no way to predict how Barry might be feeling, whether he’ll still be small or if he’ll be that bright, awkward young man or if he’ll just be a man weighed down by the weight of everything.

“G’night, beautiful boy.”

It’s all Joe can do to just roll with the punches.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!  
please let me know if you enjoyed this, and if you’d like to see more! (or if you maybe have any ideas for little!barry fics because, y’know, that sure makes my job easier) ♡


End file.
